Chapter 27 #2
“How can we possibly thank you?” Mr. Bennet asked, removing his spectacles and dabbing at the corners of his eyes.
His relief was genuine, no doubt, which would only make it worse once he discovered that his problems were not, in fact, resolved.
It was too good to be true. Too easy. But because it was what Mr. Bennet wanted, he would believe it without further inquiry.
“Think nothing of it, I beg you,” Wickham said magnanimously. “It is nothing a gentleman would not happily do for a friend in need. If there is anything I can do to assist further, I am at your disposal.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wickham. You have helped enough,” Elizabeth said.
Richard’s eyes met Darcy’s, a spark of admiration there despite the concerned furrow of his brow.
Miss Bennet frowned at her sister. “Yes, we cannot possibly repay you for the kindness you have done for us already, therefore we must beg you not to extend yourself too much on our behalf when we are already in your debt.”
Darcy was certain that Elizabeth possessed the vocabulary to express herself as clearly as she wished.
It was not lost on Richard that she shared their distrust of Wickham.
The caitiff’s investment of a significant sum with no apparent aim made Darcy’s stomach roil.
That was it. He was decided. He would put an end to this game of cat and mouse and confess the whole truth to the Bennets.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Wickham met Darcy’s gaze fully.
“I would be happy to put in a good word for you, Mr. Robinson.” His eyes danced gleefully as he emphasized the pseudonym.
“Of course, that is a conversation for another time. No doubt you and Mr. Bennet have a great deal to discuss.”
One look at Mr. Bennet confirmed what Darcy dreaded to be true. From the start, his presence had been unwanted, a daily reminder of the gentleman’s failure and current trouble. Wickham had single-handedly made himself the hero, benefiting from Darcy’s hard work and efficiency.
However, Darcy could not imagine that having him dismissed from Longbourn was Wickham’s endgame.
What else would he want? He had always been jealous of Darcy.
Wickham had assumed the airs of one born into wealth and privilege; he had been encouraged to do so by the senior Mr. Wickham and, to a large degree, by Darcy’s own father, who showed him favor and even financed a gentleman’s education for him.
But why involve Richard? Why mention his connection to Matlock?
Too many unanswered questions, but Darcy was resolved to clarify one point. “Indeed, there is one point I am determined to confess—”
Wickham pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket, the sound of the paper gliding over the broadcloth drawing everyone’s eye away from Darcy to him.
Everyone except Elizabeth, who regarded him with burning curiosity and increasing concern.
“Allow me another minute, if you please, Mr. Robinson. I, too, have a confession. It explains my delay in town and has a direct impact on the Bennets.”
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped from Darcy over to Wickham.
Silence filled the room, and his voice pierced through the space like an actor on the stage.
“My hope is that this good news of having your debts excused will overshadow what I must now disclose.” Dread crept up Darcy’s spine and squeezed the air out of his lungs.
The paper was already in Mr. Bennet’s hands, his vision hungrily searching the page until it landed on what Wickham had set the stage for him to see.
Darcy had heard stories claiming that a complexion could go as white as a sheet and had been skeptical of that bold description until he saw for himself how the color drained from Mr. Bennet’s face.
Richard cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mr. Bennet might wish to read the news in the privacy of his study. There is no need to trouble anyone else.”
“What? What is it?” insisted Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. Mr. Bennet looked at her, his eyes blank, his mouth gaping but no comforting words of explanation coming forth. Elizabeth rushed to his side.
Wickham answered, his tone soft and apologetic.
“While I was in London, I could not help but hear the news. You know how gossip and fanciful stories spread, but as this one concerned my friends at Longbourn, I took it upon myself to confirm what I could. When I learned that a reporter was investigating the story, I begged him to allow me to accompany him to verify it myself.” He nodded at the newspaper shaking violently in Mr. Bennet’s hands.
“That article explains the results of our investigation, along with the evidence we found. Colonel Fitzwilliam, as a relation of the Darcys, was good enough to accompany me.”
Rallying some force, Mr. Bennet shoved the paper at Elizabeth. “Read it.”
She took the newspaper from him, her attention on her father. “Mama, some tea, please.”
Mrs. Bennet handed her the steaming liquid just as Richard produced a flask. “Allow me,” he said, pouring into the cup.
Taking the tea his wife held to his mouth, Mr. Bennet drank deeply. If it burned his lips or scorched his tongue, he did not complain. He did cough, to which Richard nodded in understanding. With a stronger, steadier voice, Mr. Bennet urged, “Read it. Aloud.”
Elizabeth looked at the page. Her sudden reaction caused Darcy to launch himself from his chair to lend her support. Richard was there, too, his flask ready. Together, they stood at her side, ready to shut out danger and protect that which was precious to Darcy. She clutched the paper open.
He saw the notice and felt the blood drain out of him. One of the paragraphs explained why Richard had risked showing up at Longbourn. Darcy cursed himself for not speaking sooner.
Wickham had buried him.